


A Canvas Sky

by brinnanza



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e01-e02 The Search
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-11 12:20:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7050712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnanza/pseuds/brinnanza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“He’s not coming,” he tells Miles and Miles says, “I see,” and then they’re speeding away and firing torpedoes and waking up in a changeling cavern. Garak lying crumpled and unmoving against the bulkhead is etched on the inside of Julian’s eyelids and it burns white-hot with every blink.</p>
<p>It turns out not to be real. It should make him feel better, but it doesn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Canvas Sky

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired entirely by inability to write actual character death and so instead I cheated terribly at the prompt "mourn" from [here](http://brinnanza.tumblr.com/post/144358257866/send-me-a-pairing-and-a-prompt). It sort of accidentally turned into a companion piece to Give My Love a Four Letter Name. The title is from the song It's Only a Paper Moon because of course it is; thanks a million to Cupid, Ashley, and Jazzy, without whom this fic would have been much, much worse off.

“We’ve got to go,” Commander Sisko is saying, tugging on his arm. “Come on.”

There’s nothing he can do and there isn’t time, so Julian goes, but his mind is doing six things at once. Sometimes his genetically enhanced brain is convenient, but right now it’s just a burden. Even as he’s listening for Jem’Hadar and calculating the odds of success (low) and survival (lower), part of him is thinking _Garak_ and _dead_ and _“I’ve missed you.”_

“He’s not coming,” he tells Miles and Miles says, “I see,” and then they’re speeding away and firing torpedoes and waking up in a changeling cavern. Garak lying crumpled and unmoving against the bulkhead is etched on the inside of Julian’s eyelids and it burns white-hot with every blink.

It turns out not to be real. It should make him feel better, but it doesn’t.

 

Later, when the immediate crisis is over and things return to what passes for normal on Deep Space Nine, he sits across from Garak in the replimat and thinks, “I saw you die.”

He doesn’t realize he’s said it aloud until Garak gives him a curious look and says, “Excuse me, Doctor?”

The memory twists painfully in Julian’s stomach. “Sorry,” he says distractedly, waving one hand in a little idle motion.“I just…” He shakes his head. It had been difficult enough to live the thing once, and then relive it again for the debriefing and again for his report. “It wasn’t real, obviously,” he says, as much to himself as to Garak. “They wanted to see how far we’d go to prevent a war. You were helping us escape and you -- you didn’t make it.”

“They?” 

“The Dominion,” Julian clarifies. “They -- I’m not sure how much of this I should tell you, actually.”

“Still worried I’m a spy, hmm?” Garak’s lip curls up approvingly.

He doesn’t take the bait. “Because you’re not Starfleet.”

The smile flattens into disappointment. “So why are you telling me?”

Julian pushes his food around his plate, his appetite suddenly gone. “I don’t know. I didn’t mean to.”

Garak quirks an eye ridge at him. “Are you often in the business of revealing classified information by accident? That seems unwise for a Starfleet officer.”

“No, I’m not,” Julian says. He usually welcomes Garak’s lectures-disguised-as-discussion on effective dissembling techniques, but he’s having enough trouble keeping track of what’s true right now. “You’d have found out anyway.”

“And so I have -- right from you,” Garak says, picking up his fork. He leans forward conspiratorially. “Tell me, how did I go? I hope it was an exciting death.”

The acrid smell of phaser-burned flesh lingers in the back of Julian’s mind. “You were shot.”

“A pity,” Garak says, settling back in his chair again. His voice is unbearably casual. “I do hope I took a few enemy combatants with me at least.”

There is something deeply unsettling about retelling a man’s death to his face. “I’m not sure I want to talk about it,” Julian says.

Garak studies him for a moment, as if trying to decide whether to indulge such sentimentality when there is information to be had. “Very well,” he says finally. “Did you finish that collection of short stories I gave you? I’m curious to hear your thoughts.”

Something in Julian’s chest unclenches just a little. “Yes, I did,” he says, thinking back. It seems like a lifetime ago. “Though I’m not sure ‘short’ is entirely accurate.”

“I suppose Alket, like many authors of that era, can tend toward verbosity,” Garak muses.

And so they move on to topics less macabre. Literary discussions with Garak require rather more processing power than most conversations, but there is still a part of Julian’s mind that keeps beating out a tattoo of phaser fire like white noise he can’t tune out.

 

He has a heart valve transplant scheduled for the afternoon, a young Bajoran girl named Orja, so he does his best to thrown himself into the work and put everything else out of his head. He manages, more or less -- medicine has always had a way of chasing away all of his extraneous thoughts.

The surgery goes well, and all of the walk-ins afterwards are routine bumps and bruises, easily treated. Lieutenant Villanueva’s pregnant wife is due for an ultrasound, which Julian administers in good spirits, finding the Counselor and her wife’s jovial mood contagious.

_This is just what I needed_ , Julian thinks later. A new life in the galaxy to lift the heavy curtain of despair the Dominion had draped over him. War may be inevitable, but for now, there’s a healthy baby girl, solidly and undeniably real, who is already so loved by her expectant parents. Perhaps that’s enough.

 

“...and then Keiko said -- Julian? Julian, are you listening?”

Julian takes a sip of synthale to cover the embarrassingly long time it takes to drag his attention to the present. 

His good mood had lasted through the end of his shift and into the evening, propelling him to invite Miles to join him for a late dinner. It had started out well enough -- he always enjoyed Miles’s company -- but Julian’s thoughts keep returning to the same dark subject. He half expects to see the tall, imposing figure of one of the Dominion’s foot soldiers looming over him at every turn.

“Yes, of course, sorry Miles,” he says. “Keiko said?”

Miles narrows his eyes from across the small table. “ _You_ asked _me_ here. If there’s somewhere else you’d rather be--”

“No, no, no,” Julian says, putting his hands up placatingly. He sighs. “I guess I’m still thinking about the changeling simulation. Jem’Hadar in Quark’s -- can you imagine?”

“That’ll never happen,” Miles says. He picks up his glass so he can gesture with it. “The Federation wouldn’t actually sign over Bajor and the wormhole to the tender mercies of the Dominion.”

“Not even to prevent a war?”

“Starfleet doesn’t like to play second fiddle,” Miles says firmly. “They’re not afraid to get their hands dirty.”

Julian supposes the “hero of Setlik III” would know. He manages to refrain from saying that aloud -- Miles wouldn’t take it well. Instead he says, “I guess.”

Miles knocks back the rest of his synthale, then sets the glass down and leans over to clap a hand on Julian’s shoulder. “Look,” he says as if he’s about to impart great wisdom. “None of that stuff was real anyway. It’ll be different this time. It’s probably best to just forget about the whole thing.”

Julian wonders what else Miles has tried to “just forget about”. It doesn’t sound like a new approach. Julian’s no counselor, but a blanket policy of repressing difficult experiences doesn’t seem particularly healthy.

In any case, Miles doesn’t appear to be interested in discussing it further. “It’s getting late,” he says, getting to his feet. “I’m gonna head home. I’ll see you around?”

“Sure,” Julian says. He watches Miles depart, then reaches for his drink again, swirling the liquid in the glass and staring off into the middle distance.

He recognizes he’s being a little ridiculous. Maybe Miles is right, and he should just put the whole thing behind him. None of it had really happened -- the Federation hadn’t actually signed a treaty with the Dominion. They hadn’t collapsed the wormhole.

And Garak hadn’t been killed. Julian could walk to his quarters right now if he wanted, see him -- well, probably asleep at this hour, but unquestionably whole and alive.

This is what’s real: Julian had been captured by the Dominion, interrogated, and released. Nothing beyond those bare facts is true.

He drains the rest of his drink and then gets up. Maybe a walk will do him some good, help him clear his head.

 

Unsurprisingly, Julian finds himself standing outside of Garak’s quarters. The whole thing is incredibly silly and if Garak even answers the door, he’ll probably just laugh and turn him away, but in the time it took to walk here, Julian has half convinced himself that if he just sees Garak, sees him moving and breathing, he’ll be able to get Garak’s gurgled last words out of his head.

It takes a few minutes, but eventually, the door slides open to reveal Garak, impeccably dressed despite the hour and wearing a concerned expression.

“Doctor,” he greets. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

_You see_ , Julian tells himself, attempting to appeal to his own rational nature, _he’s fine. He didn’t die_. The pit in Julian’s stomach is not mollified.

“Can I come in?” Julian asks.

There’s a barely perceptible pause, but then Garak says, “Of course,” and steps aside to let him into the room.

Garak’s quarters are sparse and utilitarian, even after several years of living on the station. Julian wonders if there’s anything personal here at all, secreted away from view. Even with so much between them, Garak is still more questions than answers.

At least he’s still around to ask.

“Doctor?” Garak prompts, and Julian jerks his head up sharply, pulling himself out of his reverie. 

“Sorry,” he says. “I just -- I know it wasn’t real, but I can’t get it out of my head. You -- dying.”

Garak tilts his head, peering at Julian with an inscrutable look. “But as you’ve said, I’m not dead. To the chagrin of many, I’m sure.” He smiles at his own joke.

Julian scrubs a frustrated hand through his hair, in no mood for Garak’s witty rejoinders. “I know that. But it it _felt_ real.”

Garak’s face seems to soften, and when he speaks, his voice is uncommonly gentle. “My dear doctor,” he says, “your concern is touching, but unnecessary. As you can see, I’m still very much alive, and the inevitable event of my death will hardly merit you troubling yourself quite so much.”

Julian can’t believe he has to have this conversation yet again. “Is that really what you think? That you dying shouldn’t affect me?” There’s a hard edge in his tone, and he leans in close, using the advantage of his greater height to glare down at Garak.

“Would I have said it if I hadn’t meant it?” Garak is the picture of innocence, as if he’s the only rational being in a sea of overemotional children. 

“Yes,” Julian spits. The words come out more venomously than he’d intended. “I don’t understand why every conversation with you has to be a battle.”

“Then you can hardly profess to know me at all.” There’s a smug smirk on Garak’s face, and Julian almost wants to hit him.

Which would, no doubt, be exactly what Garak wants. Julian takes a deep breath and clarity prevails. He recognizes this tactic, has seen Garak employ it once before, in so much pain and lashing out at anyone in striking distance.

Julian forces himself to relax and unclenches his fists. “This won’t work, you know.”

“What’s that?”

“Trying to -- to drive me away by making me angry. It didn’t work when you had that wire in your head, and it won’t work now. Why is it so difficult for you to accept that I care about what happens to you?”

Garak’s entire demeanor goes abruptly cold. “My dear boy,” he says, the endearment cutting in such a tone. “You have no idea what I’m capable of or what I have done.”

“And I don’t care,” Julian says recklessly.

Garak’s lips curl up into a smile, but there’s no warmth in it. It’s the chillingly condescending expression he usually reserves for Gul Dukat. “That is extremely foolish.”

Julian blusters on, heedless. “I may not know every detail of every terrible thing you’ve done,” he says, his own lies well in mind, “but I think I know what you’re capable of. You wouldn’t hurt me.”

Garak’s expression doesn’t change. “I seem to recall I once threw you across this very room. I might have killed you, were I in a fit state.”

Julian shakes his head. “I don’t believe that.”

“Then you are hopelessly naive.”

“Maybe,” Julian agrees. He reaches out to grasp Garak by the upper arms, trying to imbue as much sincerity into his words as possible. “Look, I won’t pretend to know what makes you tick or even what you get out of my company, but the fact is, you are my _friend_ , Elim Garak. For better or for worse, I am going to care about what happens to you.”

He’s willing to stay and argue his case all night if necessary, talk himself blue in the face until Garak accepts that Julian isn’t going anywhere. Trying to convince one exiled tailor-slash-probable spy that he deserves to have a friend is suddenly the most important thing he’s ever done.

Eventually, Garak seems to realize that Julian’s stubbornness would win out over his own, and he sighs. “On your own head be it,” he says, his tone indicating that he still believes it to be an unbelievable mistake.

And it’s possible he’s right. Julian may be naive or recklessly optimistic or whatever, but he’s not an idiot. He knows Garak is more than capable of violence and treachery; he’s seen it in the cracks that occasionally form in Garak’s affable facade. Julian has been running mental odds on the possibility of betrayal since the moment they met. If two years of weekly lunches and the odd trip to Cardassia’s Arawath Colony have taught him anything, it’s this: He trusts Elim Garak. Perhaps it’s to his folly, but so be it.

Garak is still looking at him disapprovingly, but there’s something else in his expression, something Julian can’t quite pin down on Cardassian features. It’s almost like….

_Oh._

They’re already standing so close, personal space frequently forgotten in the heat of discussion. There are scant inches left to close. Julian tips his chin down so he can look at Garak through his eyelashes, a laugh bubbling up warm inside his chest.

“Something funny, Doctor?”

“Not at all,” Julian says. It’s serious, so serious, incredibly, monumentally serious. “I’ve just realized something is all.”

“Finally come to your senses, have you?”

“Yes, yes I have.” God, his cheeks actually hurt, he’s smiling so hard.

“Glad to hear it,” Garak says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He starts to pull out of Julian’s grip, but Julian just tightens his hold. Garak could break away from him if he really wanted to, but he stills.

“I care about what happens to you,” Julian says, his eyes firmly locked onto Garak’s. “I care about you, Garak.”

Garak purses his lips. “Thank you, Doctor, but--”

“Garak,” Julian chides. Why should anything involving Elim Garak ever be easy?

Garak just watches him, stubbornly refusing to understand, even though Julian knows he does, he _must._ It’s all right there on Julian’s face, in his touch, in his earnest gaze. If _anyone_ should be able to see, it’s this singularly frustrating, impossible man.

The thundering footsteps of Jem’Hadar soldiers echos distantly in Julian’s mind, the sharp whine of phaser fire, the dull thud of bodies hitting the deck. It didn’t happen, not this time, and not like that, but it could have.

_To hell with it_ , Julian thinks. He steps forward to close the last bit of distance between them, brings one hand up to cup Garak’s face, and kisses him.

It’s impossibly sweet, the soft slide of Garak’s cool mouth against his. Garak parts his lips, touches the tip of his tongue against Julian’s, feather light, and Julian wants to melt into him. He wants to live in this moment for an age until every nerve is branded with the memory of this kiss.

When it ends and Julian pulls back, Garak has gone very still. He lets out a long, slow breath, his eyes still closed, and murmurs, “Oh, Julian. This is not a good idea.”

“I don’t care,” Julian replies. His skin burns with the sound of his name on Garak’s tongue. He wants to taste it, to draw it out again and again until words desert them both.

Garak opens his eyes, and Julian is able to catch the briefest glance of unguarded longing before it’s hidden away again behind Garak’s customary walls. “You should.”

Julian swallows around the sudden ache in his throat and tugs Garak forward to tip their foreheads together. 

Garak’s breathing goes a little shallow. “My dear, do you have any--” He clears his throat. “Do you know what this gesture means to Cardassians?”

“Is it something different from what it means to humans?”

“Not being human, I couldn’t say,” Garak says, “but to Cardassians, it is… very intimate.”

Of course -- he should have realized the ridges there would be sensitive. He starts to pull away. “Oh, yes, sorry--”

“No, no,” Garak says, sliding his hands into Julian’s hair to stop him. His thumbs come up to brush Julian’s cheeks, his breath warm against Julian’s lips. Even without the requisite facial structures, it’s nearly too much. 

This is what’s true: They are both alive and uninjured. The Federation has not abandoned Bajor. The wormhole rests just beyond the station, ready to flare to life in a riot of color.

War may be inevitable, but it doesn’t touch them here.


End file.
